In the Eye of the Beholder
by Westel
Summary: Ensign Chekov is sent to a non-Federation pleasure planet to investigate mysterious disappearances of clientele. What he finds is not only shocking, but may possibly leave him very dead.
1. Chapter 1

In the Eye of the Beholder

by Westel

Chekov stood in the transporter room, looking over the assignment flimsy given to him by Captain Kirk less than four hours ago. Funny, how in the course of half a shift he could be so far removed from his post on the bridge, recalibrating the course for this little planet they were approaching, and placed here, ready to beam down to that very same planet, alone.

Hs orders: Represent the Federation in determining whether the pleasure planet would be a good location for Starfleet personnel to take their R&R's. The hidden orders were, of course, more serious. Chekov was to try to find out anything he could about the mysterious disappearance of a few Federation citizens who either never made it to the planet or could not be traced after they had supposedly left it. The planet, though originally privately funded and colonized by Terran people, claimed no allegiance to the Federation, forming their own government, which was their right.

So Chekov had his work cut out for him – trying to get at the information Starfleet wanted without infringing upon the rights of the populace could prove to be difficult.

He hadn't asked for this assignment. To be honest, he rarely had to ask for _any_ assignment – Kirk threw them his way so often he sometimes wondered whether he was finished with one before beginning another. _Training of command personnel_, he'd been told. _A well-rounded ensign will someday make a competent leader_. How could he argue with that? With Kirk in command, however, spreading Chekov around was sometimes spreading Chekov a little thin.

A mission on a recreation planet should be a welcome break – a time to relax, do a little computer work, even enjoy himself – certainly better than routine bridge duty while the _Enterprise_ delivered medical supplies to an outlying colony. So why did he feel so reluctant to leave the ship?

"Are you ready for beamdown, Mr. Chekov?" The transporter chief's query interrupted Pavel's brooding.

"Aye, Mr. Kyle. Have you heard from Uhura yet?"

"Just now. She has been talking to a fellow by the name of Caspar. He's waiting for you at the beamdown coordinates. He's the government representative who'll be your escort and aide once you've arrived. Oh, and Pavel," he grinned, "try not to have too much fun down there while you're 'working'."

"Who, me?" said the Russian, drawing himself up with dignity. "I'm afraid that's _not_ what the captain had in mind. A Russian _always_ puts duty before pleasure." The navigator gave Mr. Kyle a long-suffering look. "Duty calls, Lieutenant. There is work to be done."

Kyle unsuccessfully stifled a snorting burst of laughter. "Have it your way, Pavel. See you in a week." The blond-haired man moved the lever and the dematerialization effect sparkled around the Russian's form. The chuckling transporter engineer could make out Chekov's stoic salute as the young man faded into nothingness.

ooOOoo

Sweet, scented breezes played in the navigator's hair as he formed on the garden planet. For an instant, in that fragmented moment of half-existence, he was reminded of a spring morning years ago at his grandmother's home. The rain had been gentle and the sun was breaking through the clouds, lighting up each raindrop like liquid gold on the leaves and petals surrounding him. He reached out a finger to touch the dewy splendor...

"Ahem!"

Pavel jerked open his eyes to see a wizened figure standing there, staring at him with mild amusement. There was no malice in those grey eyes, however, only open regard and a touch of empathy.

"It's difficult to ignore, isn't it? The smells, I mean."

Pavel smiled but was still too overcome to speak. The vision had been so _real_. Another minute and he would have heard his grandmother's voice calling him from within the house. The young Russian tried half-heartedly to free himself of the living images as he walked over to the old man. A playful current brought the distant sound of wind-chimes and again Pavel was reminded of something just out of reach, the breath catching in his throat. A warm, dry touch on his hand quickly brought the man back to reality; he grinned wryly at his apparent foolishness.

"Please forgive me, it's just that…I've never been…" His voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Don't apologize, Ensign. You'll get used to it in time. Meanwhile…"

The little man hoisted Pavel's case, loaded with paraphernalia, with surprising ease and started off at a brisk pace. Pavel was horrified. "No, sir, that's too heavy for you! Please let me…"

The little man stopped for a moment, sizing up the Starfleet officer, before continuing on. "I'm stronger than I look, young man. If you'll just follow me…" He hauled the heavy case away toward a group of nearby buildings, leaving Pavel with no other choice but to follow.

As they left the park-like setting, small, bent figures in nondescript robes slowly converged from nowhere, like night creatures in a darkened room. The people stood looking after Chekov and his guide for a long while, their utter silence broken only by a single, low moan. Then they disappeared as quickly as they had come, leaving only the emptiness behind them.

ooOOoo

"I hope you will find these rooms to your satisfaction," said Caspar, as he moved about the room opening doors and pulling back curtains.

The ensign stood dumbfounded in the middle of the large room, staring out through the unveiled windows into a small garden overlooking a crystal bay, its blue waters softening to grey as evening approached. Quiet waves touched the white shore as distant sounds of seabirds caressed the deepening twilight.

"Mr. Chekov, is something the matter?"

Pavel reddened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Caspar. I must be a little tired. This place…"

"Oh, I daresay you've been to many beautiful planets in your travels, Mr. Chekov. Ours is simply one among many." Caspar's words were diplomatic, but there was a tinge of pride in his sparkling eyes.

"Don't underestimate this place, sir. I-I've never felt such peace before, as if I could rest here, undisturbed, unmolested, for as long as I wanted." Chekov wished he could convey what he was feeling to the old man, but the words failed him. He smiled at his host. "I don't usually have this much trouble expressing myself."

"Of course not, young man, of course not. Now I'll just leave you to unpack and get your bearings. If you care to eat, look in the preservation cabinets in the next room." At the Russian's curious look, he continued: "No food synthesizers here, son; there's no need for them. Here we grow our own – a type of therapy proven effective down through the ages."

The old man went to the door; his bearing, though stooped, was dignified and purposeful. With a formal bow, he bid the navigator good night.

ooOOoo

Ensign Pavel A. Chekov sat hunched over a cluttered desk, ignoring with only partial success the call of the night wind. Jim Kirk had given him specific orders to go over these materials before passing his first night there, but the assignments was proving more difficult than he had imagined. Investigating, under the pretense of routine inspection, unofficla reports alleging that occasionally people who visited this planet were never seen again, was not his first choice of assignments. They had simply disappeared, supposedly, without a trace. There had been no real documentation, however, and this tedious job was now given to him to complete.

"Don't worry, Chekov," Kirk had encouraged him at the briefing, "I have to do this sort of thing all the time – it goes with the job. And it's Starfleet's job to mollify the Federation. You might as well get some firsthand experience."

_I'd rather be doing it on a starship_, Pavel thought. _At least I wouldn't have all _this_ to distract me._ The young man looked out the window at the brilliant stars lacing the sky with their delicate light reflecting off the water below. After a moment, he passed a hand over his eyes and returned to his compboard, sighing deeply. It was going to be a long night.

ooOOoo

Chekov spent the next day with his guide, walking through the gardens, admiring the simple architecture, taking in the exquisite peace that pervaded the very air. It seemed ludicrous that anything sinister could be connected with this place. Despite the need to continue his investigation, Pavel found himself telling the old man about himself.

"And that's when I joined Starfleet. I've never regretted my decision, only sometimes I have dreams about my home…" He frowned, his dark yes awash with concern. "I worry about them, you see." He shrugged resignedly. "But they worry about me, too."

"You must come from a very loving family, Mr. Chekov," said Caspar, admiringly. "I envy you."

They had left the park area and wandered into a small but ancient wood, their steps softened by centuries of fallen leaves and tender green mosses. Caspar glanced at his serious young companion, wondering at his youth and inexperience of life. His own advanced age seemed a millennia compared to the navigator's short sojourn in the universe. Unaware that he had drifted deep into his own thoughts, Caspar was startled out of his reverie by the Russian's voice.

"Mr. Caspar, you haven't told me why we have seen no people my age today."

The old man, dwarfed by the young ensign, maintained a semblance of calm as he continued down the wooded path, sun dappling his robes in shades of gold and green.

"This is a retreat planet, my son, as I have told you. The older clientele seeks us out. Some even decide to retire here, permanently. I'm afraid we're too quiet for the youthful."

Chekov frowned. This was not the first rational, but shaded answer he had received from his guide. Maybe it had nothing to do with the disappearances, but he couldn't help but think Caspar knew far more than he was telling him. He tried again: "But surely some younger clientele would like the quiet, too. I certainly do."

"I find this wood particularly helpful when I am too heavily burdened with responsibility, Mr. Chekov. It's peaceful here, and isolated. Just the kind of place to collect your thoughts, wouldn't you say?"

Chekov stopped the old guide, his hand gentle on the thin arm. He bent and looked directly into Caspar's face, making the man look at him. "Why are there no young people?" he quietly asked again.

For the first time, Caspar looked troubled. He glanced away, wrapping his arms around his body as if to warm himself. So there it was. He had no doubts as to why the young officer had been sent here, despite the official reason. Whether or not to answer was no longer a question – it would all be found out sooner or later, anyway.

Pavel stood silently, sensing the man's struggle. A few moments later his host dropped his arms and turned to face his questioner.

"There are no young people here because they cannot remain young and live."

"What?"

"It's a paradox, having to age to remain alive, I know. But you must understand the nature of this place. I suppose your captain had this planet scanned before you transported down."

"Standard procedure. This is not, after all, a Federation colony, though the original inhabitants are on record as being Federation citizens at one time. Very little is known about you, except for the travel holos in the spaceports."

"I don't suppose your captain mentioned the Hemera radiation emitting from our double-sun.

"Hemera radiation? I'm not familiar with such…"

"I didn't expect you would be, Mr. Chekov. How can your sensors accurately detect the significance of something in such small quantities? No doubt your science officer has recorded it as a matter of small interest, something to occupy another nano-byte in your vast computers."

Pavel sincerely hoped not, as previous experience with radiation had taught him well.

"These rays," continued Caspar, "found on several planets in this system, have been found to be harmless. But here, something unknown is apparently reacting with them, causing a very strange phenomenon to occur: rapid aging." At Chekov's look of horror he continued: "It is not so terrible. Although I aged considerably when I first came here, it leveled off after two or three months. I have been at this 'stage' for about 40 years." He smiled wryly. "I've actually caught up with myself!"

"You don't, that is to say, you haven't…" The ensign took a deep breath. "Forgive me, sir, but why haven't you _died_?" He was remembering a recent experience on another planet that left many of them dying of old age in a matter of days until McCoy had found a cure. Only he had been spared the disease, due to his lack of experience and the effects of what Spock termed "undue emotion".

"Those of us who are truly old, 130 or so, _d_o die. But that's only because we're ready. Who in his right mind wants to live forever?"

"I suppose no one, but to think of growing old overnight is difficult. How could I just _accept_ something like that?"

How could he accept growing stooped, grey, and feeble while still in his twenties? He had watched helpless as Kirk became arthritic, senile. Spock, too, had been quickly affected. But even in their affliction, they had battled the encroaching illness and, inevitably, an untimely death. How could he do any less now?

"No, I _couldn't_ accept it," he said, shaking his head emphatically. "I would _have_ to fight it."

"Then you would surely die. The nature of the disease, or 'process', as we prefer to call it, is to dwell in the human host, increasing metabolism by enormous proportions, until it reaches a plateau of sots. The host then experiences permanent remission and prolonged life until natural death takes him, living in the meantime perfectly healthy and active, free of the typical aches and pains of old age. That's what happened to most of us here. However…" He hesitated, frowning, and sat down on a petrified stump.

Pavel shifted his weight restlessly, anxious for his guide to continue. Caspar looked at him with open pity, which did nothing to alleviate the navigator's worry. "Son, this is the hardest part for me to tell you. If you fight it, if you refuse to accept what _is_, you tear yourself up inside. The very hormones and antibodies your body generates to combat the effect serve only to excite the process. Oh, it appears you are winning for a time, since your outward appearance changes little, but the damage internally is insurmountable. You begin to _feel_ old: stiff joints, organ dysfunction, heart problems, mental degeneration – any of the symptoms of old age before modern geriatric medicine came along. It is always the youngest who fight it the most – because they feel they have the most to lose – and it is because they _fight_ it so that it is only a short time before they die."

Since coming to the pleasure planet Pavel had felt like an actor in a play, his lines memorized and the stage directions set. He hadn't wanted to come here, as illogical as it seemed, but here he was. He had escaped the fatal illness suffered by Kirk and the others, only to find himself facing the same prospect now. He had been guided by this old gentleman, his time wasted, with no satisfactory answers. And now his future seemed to be written on an invisible page before him: _Exit stage right…curtain._

Well, enough was enough. The Russian's mobile features hardened with determination, his dark eyes sparkling with new motivation.

"Look, Mr. Caspar, you're talking as though I should _like_ the idea of aging fifty years in as many days! Maybe it was acceptable for you, but not for me. Even if I were as healthy as you, I couldn't perform the duties required of me on a starship; my chances of obtaining my own command would be ruined. I have no intention of allowing that to happen; I have no _choice_ but to fight it!"

Caspar rose slowly, his face lined with a new sadness. In a voice cracking with emotion he replied, "Then you have certainly signed your own death warrant."


	2. Chapter 2

In the Eye of the Beholder  
by Westel

Pavel sat on the edge of his bed, the nightmare which had awakened him already a fleeting memory, leaving only the faint irony of spent anger. Glancing out the window, he could discern a new morning brightening the horizon over a calm sea. It promised to be a beautiful day after last night's thunderstorm but, somehow, he couldn't get very enthused over it. As he stretched and rose to pad across the plush carpet toward the shower, his aching knees and fingers attested to the fact that Caspar had not been exaggerating when he said that one aged quickly here. A brief look in the mirror revealed no outward signs of the process – only dark circles under the eyes, a bleak reminder of his lack of sleep the last two nights.

As he stepped into the shower, letting the warm water caress his protesting joints, he recalled the many subsequent conversations he had had with Caspar as the opportunities arose. Though their medical stores were sufficient, they had nothing to treat the process itself—only the symptoms. And, it seemed that the process affected different people in different ways. Caspar had aged quickly but painlessly, since he was already near fifty when he was afflicted and had no youth to lose. Others had resisted at first, growing ill immediately, later giving in and recovering to a certain extent, but never regaining the vigor they would have had if they had relinquished themselves to the process right away. They were the ones who faded in and out of the park like shy forest animals, envious of those who had aged graciously, without pain or disease. Caspar called them the Grey Robes.

Those who had easily survived the process became the governors of the planet. The late recovered ones, according to Caspar, were dependent upon the government, performing menial maintenance tasks in the pleasure park. They were harmless, he said, although once in a rare while there were some small disturbances. Caspar was very vague on the subject, but it seemed that any young ones who visited the planet, those few who bothered to visit what was, in essence, a retirement planet, had left before the process could take much effect, feeling perhaps only minor discomfort. There was no mention of 'disappearances'. Chekov, though unsatisfied with the old man's explanations, could not convince him to elaborate further on the subject.

At least the old gentleman was helpful in showing Pavel the central library and what little information there was concerning Hemera radiation. The Russian could see the man was perplexed at his refusal to accept what was happening to him, privately acknowledging Caspar probably thought him a young fool who wouldn't listen to reason. But he couldn't help what Caspar thought. It was _his_ life. The _Enterprise_ would be returning for him in four days, and he had no intention of giving in to any kind of radiation for that long. The very idea was absurd – just giving up, just quitting—only to look in the mirror one morning to see the reflection of a forty-five year old staring back at him—years he could never reclaim. The concept, grotesque, almost perverted, made him shudder with revulsion.

His thoughts turned to the work ahead of him that day. There was a lot of make-up work to do, and he was determined to have a full report ready for the captain when the ship returned.

The shower finished, he was reaching for a towel when a sudden tightness in his chest caught his breath away for a minute, his ears ringing. He clung to the doorframe, breathing deeply, before he could stumble over to the bed. He lay down and remained perfectly still until the tightness eased. After a minute or two he sat up cautiously, feeling as if someone had punched him in the sternum. Carefully, he forced himself to get dressed.

Not long after that Caspar arrived to escort him to the library. It wasn't really necessary—Pavel knew the way—but the old gentleman felt it was his duty as host to guide the young man around. Pavel, however, couldn't help believing that Caspar was worried about what he might find out as a result of his research; there was definitely something to this disappearance rumor. Perhaps the old man was also looking for signs of degeneration in his visitor. Pavel glanced at his reflection again and wondered if he was the only one on the planet whose hair hadn't turned to silver.

As they left the building, the tightness returned, although to a lesser degree, but the Russian had no intention of letting Caspar know anything was wrong. He had all he could handle right now without having his host urge him once again to "accept his fate", no matter how good his intentions. Clenching his teeth, he went on. Behind them, a group of Grey Robes gathered, staring after the ensign and his guide; only this time their stares were less curious, more ominous. If the navigator had turned to look over his shoulder, he would have called it unadulterated hatred.

ooOOoo

The Vulcan was so engrossed with his research that he did not hear the captain approach. It was all he could do not to flinch when his friend spoke.

"Spock, something's been bothering you since we left that pleasure planet three days ago. Want to tell me what it is?"

Spock glanced up quickly from his computer monitor. "A most curious radiation reading in the lower range, Captain. I picked it up in a routine scan before Mr. Chekov transported down. It did not register as anything out of the ordinary. Still…"

Kirk frowned, knowing his first officer was mentally calibrating all the factors, quotients and formulas to come up with a logical answer; also knowing that in some cases logic simply would not do. He knew how difficult it was for Spock to rely on instinct alone. "Go on, Mr. Spock," he prompted.

"I have been going over the ship's files on little known types of radiation and their effects on life forms. It appears tat this particular type, Hemera, if brought into contact with certain elements of a breathable atmosphere, has a metabolic-altering influence on various warm-blooded species."

Kirk leaned closer, worry creasing his brow. "_Certain_ species? As in humans?"

"Unknown at this time. However, the fact that Hemera exists on the very planet where Ensign Chekov is investigating the alleged disappearances of several vacationing individuals raises some pointed questions."

"But Spock, there are colonists who have inhabited that planet since the beginning who are still alive and well. I spoke to one of them before we deposited Chekov."

"True, Captain." Spock stood rigidly, hands behind his back.

Kirk looked at him sideways. "Despite those facts, your gut tells you we should return to the recreation planet immediately."

"I fail to see why you and Dr. McCoy so ardently persist on equating the workings of the logical mind with the digestive process," said Spock, his eyebrow raised at Kirk's amused grin. "It is my opinion, however, that we should turn back." The captain's smile faded as he looked over his shoulder at Scott, manning the bridge engineering station. "We've still got this medical shipment to make."

"A small matter, Captain, since there is no medical emergency, a stock delivery only."

Jim stared at the floor for a moment, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "All right, Spock, continue your study of this Hemera radiation. I want a full report if you find anything else." Kirk turned away, his voice carrying across the room. "Mr. Sulu, reverse course. We're going back to the pleasure planet. Mr. Scott, may I have a word with you please?"

The captain's mollifying dialogue with the disgruntled engineer brought a faint smile to the Vulcan's lips. Scott would have them back at Chekov's planet in record time, the pending shipment delayed only a day or so. But something in the back of his mind wondered what they would find when they arrived…

ooOOoo

"Mr. Caspar, what is this trace element?" Pavel pointed to the screen as Caspar looked over his shoulder, squinting slightly.

"It's a Mai Li molecule. Just a simple gas found in our atmosphere. No more dangerous to us than the helium found in your Terran environment. As you can see, there is so little of it as to barely register. This planet was thoroughly investigated before the pleasure colony was established. If there had been any doubt about the atmosphere, I would not be standing here, now."

"True, but you yourself said I could be just such an element, seemingly inconsequential and in small amounts, which may be working with the Hemera radiation to cause the hypermetabolism. If only you had had Mr. Spock with you." The navigator grinned affectionately at Caspar. Despite his reticence in discussing anything concerning alleged missing visitors, Caspar's honest concern about the Russian's health had touched the ensign deeply, and he found himself forgetting their differences. "He is _never_ satisfied with preliminary reports."

"It appears you have been an apt pupil of his, too. You have been pursuing this research far longer than I would have had the patience to do." Caspar smiled down at the tired ensign, noting the drawn face, the dark hollows of his eyes. "But even the most dedicated must be wise enough to stop when he grows weary. We've been here ten hours; did you know that?"

Chekov's surprised look was all the answer Caspar needed. He saved the Russian's information with a spoken command and firmly led the young man from the room. Pavel was secretly relieved, though he didn't voice it. He felt tired to the bone, and was glad to leave the work until tomorrow. Still, Chekov worried about getting the report done in time. The _Enterprise _ wasn't due back for three days yet, but he felt pressured to finish his report, as if he might not be able to present it in person… The navigator could not quite repress a shiver and Caspar looked at him suddenly.

Before he could speak they heard a crash outside the building's entrance, and the murmur of angry voices. Chekov and Caspar hurried to a side window to peer at a sizable crowd of Grey Robes, some of them brandishing garden tools menacingly, all of them red-faced in anger.

"What are they shouting about?" whispered the ensign, gripping Caspar's robe tightly as a wave of dizziness enveloped him. He shook with weakness, trying with small success to slow his ragged breathing.

"The same old story. Every so often one of the Grey Robes starts thinking about his lost youth and wishes he'd decided to fight it out. It's always the same. The brochure is plain—a pleasure planet for the retired—yet we inevitably get a smattering of younger ones. They don't heed our advice to leave and stay too long, lulled by the beauty of this place. You've experienced it yourself."

_So, he's finally admitted that some young visitors have remained here, whether by their own free will or because they were unable to leave_. Chekov wondered if Caspar realized he had just confirmed his own worst suspicions. "Yes," he began, studying the old gentleman's face, who still watched the crowd outside. "It _has_ sometimes made concentration…difficult." Pavel couldn't trust himself to say much. He felt a spasm in his chest when he spoke.

"It usually happens when another young one comes here. In this case, you." Caspar withdrew his gaze from the window and looked at the navigator, his eyes widening in alarm. Chekov had paled and was obviously having difficulty standing. Caspar gently lowered him to the floor, leaning him against the wall, chafing his cold hands. "Ensign…Mr. Chekov! Can you hear me?"

Pavel blinked and focused, a little color returning. After a long moment he became aware of Caspar's touch, and a smile flickered across his face.

Caspar smiled back and offered him a hand up. "Do you think you could stand? We shouldn't stay here." The ensign nodded, getting to his feet slowly, and did not resist the old man's steadying arm around him as they looked once more at the crowd.

"Any ideas?"

"We'll go out the other way. Some gendarmes will be along soon to escort them away—we rarely come to blows around here," the guide said soothingly, feeling the trembling in his young friend's body. "Come with me—this way."

They had made it almost across the green before the Russian collapsed, all but taking the old gentleman down with him. Caspar, kneeling, lifted Chekov to rest against his shoulder and tried to bring him around, but the ensign could not be revived. He was as unaware of the old man's protective grasp and call for help as he was to the approach of curious Grey Robes, slowly surrounding the two people sprawled on the grass for all to see.

ooOOoo

"How long, Spock?"

"Ten hours, forty-seven minutes, present speed."

"Damn." Kirk got up and paced the bridge, his impatience affecting everyone there. He noticed that all eyes were on him and forced himself to sit, chewing a thumbnail. Willing himself to be calm, he called engineering. "Mr. Scott, how soon before you can nudge her back up to warp eight?"

"Captain we've been pushin' the lass too hard! I canna give ye more than warp five for another hour to give the magnetic bottles time to recover. If we jump to warp eight now and those bottles start to erode…well, once that happens, all my equipment becomes magnetized and that'll be all she wrote, not to mention floatin' along on just impulse power puts us years away from anything!"

Kirk sighed. "All right, Scotty. Give it to me as soon as she can take it." The captain closed communication and glanced at the chronometer. He considered pacing again but decided impulsively that coffee would be better, for both him and the crew. Catching Spock's eye, he motioned for the first officer to join him on the lift. "Uhura, you know where Mr. Spock and I can be reached. Mind the store."

"Aye, sir."

Spock entered the lift behind the captain, his hands clasped behind him in mute obeisance. He did not 'take breaks', but he knew his friend needed to talk to him privately. As soon as the doors closed upon them he turned to face Kirk.

"Captain, you are growing increasingly uneasy about Mr. Chekov."

Kirk glanced up at the slightly taller first officer, studying him. "I seem to recall it was _you_ who first became concerned about our young navigator."

"True, but it is illogical to worry about a hypothetical situation over which one has no control until one has, in fact, arrived at that situation."

"Spock, it's the very fact that we _haven't_ arrived, that whatever it is that's happening on that planet is happening _now_, that worries me."

The Vulcan watched his friend unobtrusively as they moved out into the corridor through the parted lift doors, noting the tense muscles in the captain's shoulders which spoke of an imminent headache. The science officer reached out to touch Kirk's arm, stopping him before they entered the rec area. "Jim, Ensign Chekov is indeed young, but he is well-trained, graduated high in his class and, though brash and zealous at times, competent to a fault."

Kirk breathed out slowly and leaned against the bulkhead, folding his arms. "I know that, Spock, otherwise I would not have sent him on this mission. But sometimes, despite all our training, our experience, it just isn't enough. I just pray in this case, that it _is_."


	3. Chapter 3

In the Eye of the Beholder  
by Westel

"Ensign…Ensign Chekov! Wake up."

Chekov heard the voice as from a great distance, a blackness and dull roar surrounding him like a midnight storm. Gradually, as the voice continued to call him, the smothering sensation eased and he eventually found himself opening his eyes to look around his own room.

Caspar sat next to him on the edge of the bed, his kindly face etched with worry. The Russian reached up to touch a cool cloth resting on his forehead, realizing his gentle friend had placed it there. As he lay quietly, taking in his surroundings, he suddenly frowned in puzzlement. "Sir, how did I get here? The last thing I remember is walking on the green – I thought I was going to pass out."

Caspar smiled at him. "You did."

Pavel didn't know how to respond to that, so he tried sitting up, Caspar pushing pillows behind him. The navigator's eyes were drawn to the large window through which the calm, sparkling bay could be seen, beckoning beach-walkers. But his body's weakness mocked his desire to be outside. He sighed heavily and found, to his horror, that tears dimmed his vision.

"Ah, our patient is awake, I see!" boomed a large voice, made to order for the hulk of a man who bounded into the room. He stopped short at the look on his patient's face, however, before continuing: "Now, this won't do, won't do at all. Caspar, get up off his bed so I can take a look at this young man!"

Caspar grinned, shaking his head. "Don't let this overbearing old fool bother you. This is Trent, my old friend and physician. Don't ever play any lawn games with him, though," he whispered conspiringly, as he stood aside. "He cheats!" Chekov cocked an eyebrow.

"He only says that because he's a poor loser, Mr. Chekov. I'm happy to make your acquaintance, though I wish it had been under better circumstances."

The young man shook the doctor's offered hand and mumbled a greeting, still uncomfortable that the doctor had found him near tears. He was made even more uncomfortable by the cause of them – the inability to do anything for himself. The _Enterprise_ wouldn't be back for another two days and, at the rate of his decline, he wasn't going to make it back to the bridge. He hadn't been able to work on the report, either. . .

_The report!_

"Oh, no. Sir, how long have I been here?" Chekov halted, aware of his abruptness. "Excuse me, Dr. Trent, but I… Caspar, how long?"

"Overnight, son. You've had a good night's sleep, thanks to Trent's little sleep potion, and he gave you some medication to strengthen your heart. You just lie there quietly until your ship arrives, then your physician can take over and repair what damage. . . what is it?" asked the old man, confused by Chekov's shaking head.

"I can't just _lie_ here, Caspar. Look, we've talked about this unknown factor which alters the Hemera rays' effect on people. I can't deny I was sent here to investigate the disappearances of certain people, people who came here to rest, relax – and instead were never seen or heard from again. From what I've learned so far, this Mai Li molecule is the crux of the whole puzzle."

"You can give the report to your commanding officer when they pick you up. All the information is stored in the computer," said Caspar, soothingly.

Despite his friendship for Caspar, the navigator was growing tired of his half-truths, placating deferrals, and patronizing attitude. "Is it?" he snapped. "Can I go to the computer right now and call it up? It was _your_ voice pattern which saved the data. I was getting too close to something you'd prefer to keep hidden, wasn't I? There's more to it than clueless visitors falling ill or succumbing to the process. You haven't _told_ anyone – _warned_ anyone!" He lay back against the pillows, the emotional outburst tiring him.

"Caspar," he continued more gently, seeing hurt all too clearly in his guide's eyes, "I'm sorry to have to ask you these questions, but you haven't been totally honest with me since I beamed down."

Caspar looked up at the physician, who shrugged resignedly and walked over to the window, looking out at the broadening day. The old guide pulled up a chair and sat next to Chekov's bed, lacing fingers together in his lap before he spoke.

"We've known about the Mai Li effect for some time. No, let me go on," he said, cutting off Pavel's protest. "God knows I've held it in long enough." He paused a moment collecting his thoughts.

"When I first came here, as did Trent, we were with the first colonizing group – about a hundred and fifty of us, ranging in ages between thirty and fifty-five. Trent and I were in the older group. As I said before, the planet had been scanned, checked out for a preliminary first stage colonization. Things went well for a few days, everything going according to schedule, sites surveyed for future buildings and landscaping – that sort of thing. Then some of us began aging very quickly. The funny thing was, we didn't _feel_ it, didn't even notice it – at least, those of us who were turning grey and becoming wrinkled. It was the youngsters, the 30 year olds, who saw it. They panicked. Our transport wasn't due for another two months and our communications weren't designed to contact anything closer than a passing ship, so we were marooned here with no other alternative than to deal with the situation as best we could.

"Interestingly enough, Trent, myself, and some others noticed that even though we looked older, we were still vigorous and perfectly capable of carrying on our work. In fact, we were better able to handle things than the youngsters. They were the ones who grew weaker daily, hourly even. Then some of them began to die. That was a terrible time," he remembered, his eyes mirroring the horror of watching men and women, seemingly in the prime of life, struck down by ancient geriatric diseases.

"Some of the younger ones, seeing their friends die, ceased to struggle against the inevitable. You can imagine how surprised we were when they stopped dying."

"Surprised, yes," said Pavel, raising himself up on one elbow. "But I still don't understand why you have hidden this information until now. Hid it from me when you knew why I was here. What about those missing people? How do you account for them?"

"That wasn't entirely his fault," interjected the doctor. "Let me finish the story. The young ones, the ones who refused to accept accelerated aging – well, some of them went berserk. It was probably due to degeneration of brain synapses, but they were still strong enough to be violent. They enticed the Grey Robes, the ones who had allowed themselves to age only after suffering some of the irreversible damage caused by their own initial resistance."

"Enticed them. . . to _violence_, you mean."

"Exactly. We had no choice but to run them off. They were dropping dead, anyway!" he cried defensively, seeing the accusing look in the Russian's eyes. "I could do _nothing_ for them! Try to understand – I hadn't come equipped to treat geriatric diseases among our age group!"

"So, when your transport finally came—" began the Russian.

"They fond ninety-eight of us left alive," said Caspar. "Most of us were healthy and active, ready to stay in order to initiate stages two and three. We were prepared to make this planet a colonized world set up under its own government and ready to conduct interstellar business.

"Some were 'damaged', true, but we took care of them here with new geriatric medicines, giving them meaningful jobs to perform and a place to call home. The others we. . . we reported dead, destroyed by a fabricated virus which had hit us all, allegedly picked up somewhere during our journey here.

"Trent and I concocted a story which convinced our sponsors. It didn't take much, considering they were just as anxious to get this high-budget undertaking off the ground as we were. Don't you see?" he pleaded, holding out his hand in supplication. "This was our _life_! Everything we owned was invested in this project – there was nothing else we could do!"

Pavel was sorry to hear this from someone he had grown so fond of in such a short time, someone he had wanted to trust. He was sorry that he would have to report everything to Captain Kirk. He regretted ever having set foot on this miserable planet. He grimaced as the now familiar band of pain tightened in his chest.

"Wait, Caspar," said Trent, as he came back over to Chekov's bed. "Let me give him another hypo. He should have had it as soon as he woke up." Pulling a hypo spray from a bag on a table nearby, he held it up to the light and then administered it into Pavel's shoulder with a cool hiss.

Chekov lay back with his eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe deeply until the medication began to take effect. The intense physical discomfort receded quickly, but the emotional pain remained. There was bitterness in his voice as the Russian continued the conversation. "So, you've been carrying on this little ruse ever since."

"Yes." Caspar would not look at the young ensign.

"When did you discover it was the Mai Li molecule which triggered the process?"

"_I_ discovered it," said Trent, looming over Chekov's bed like a gnarled oak tree. "Twenty years ago. I know what you're going to say. But I couldn't ask for outside help to figure out a way to neutralize it. One little leak and we'd be carted off to some penal colony, losing everything! The older we got, the more afraid we were of being found out."

"We designed brochures and holovids to appeal to the older clientele," said Caspar, sill avoiding Pavel's eyes. "Older folks _benefit_ from this place. They rest, recuperate, even rejuvenate to a certain extent. But we didn't account for younger customers who were just as much in need of quiet, repose. They came, despite the advertisements, and again, we couldn't turn them away for fear of arousing suspicion. Most of them stayed only long enough to feel it. We encouraged them, with Trent's 'diagnoses', to go home to recuperate. Many of them followed our advice. A few, a very few, did not. They are the ones who died, and have not been seen by friends or family again."

"You came up with a story to explain their disappearances, of course." Chekov's eyes darkened with a blacker emotion. "I suppose the same way you plan to explain mine." Pavel looked down at his crossed arms, unaware of Caspar's stricken face.

"Didn't you care about the families of these people?" he continued. "Not knowing where they are; wondering if they are marooned on some unknown planet or their atoms scattered all over space; captured by a pirate band or enemy!"

"Oh, you're real good at showing the righteous anger, aren't you? Well, haven't _you _forgotten something? Haven't you forgotten _him_?" Trent pointed to Caspar, who sat slumped in the chair, his face buried in his hands. The little man seemed smaller than before, his shoulders shaking in half-smothered sobs.

Trent placed a protective hand on his friend's shoulder. "We were wrong, Chekov, in the way we handled it from the beginning. Once initiated, we had to continue with it, or face an empty future. But we _never_ intended to hurt anyone." He shook his head. "It seems that our lies have finally caught up with us, that's true. But what I _cannot_ understand is your attitude toward Caspar, who's done nothing but protect you, care for you since your arrival. He even defended you when you were attacked on the green."

"A-attacked?" Pavel stuttered, his focus switching to the now quiet Caspar. "I don't remember. . ." He reached for the old man's hands and pulled them away, holding them in his own. "Caspar. . .Sir, look at me, please." Caspar raised his sorrowful eyes to those of the ensign, tears still wet on his cheeks.

"Who attacked us? The Grey Robes?"

"Yes." The guide cleared his throat, gently withdrew his hands from the Russian's, and sat up straighter. You had collapsed and I was unable to lift you. I'm not quite _that_ strong." He smiled, tentatively. Chekov smiled back, and Caspar found the courage to continue. "They were jealous of you, as I explained in the library. You stand out like a nebula, with your brown hair and fair, smooth skin. Most of the Grey Robes are fairly old now, but they still remember in their damaged minds, that they were once like you. When they see someone young, or even view a holograph, they become aggressive. I must admit their periodic aggression has been increasing, of late. Yesterday they approached us after you lost consciousness."

"He could have run away, Ensign. I want you to fully understand that," said the doctor, defensively. "The gendarmes were on the other side of the building, rounding up most of the Grey Robes, and he hade every excuse to run to them. He just might have made it back in time to prevent you from sustaining any damage; then again, he might not."

Chekov turned his gaze from the doctor back to Caspar and felt the blush of shame. "You stayed with me?"

"Yes, although the gendarmes came in plenty of time. Neither one of us was struck or harmed in any way. Then some help came and I was able to get you back here, where you belonged."

"The way I spoke to you just now," Pavel began, his speech slow. "You didn't deserve that." He felt Trent's baleful eyes upon him.

"Oh, yes I did," Caspar answered, darting a frown at his old friend before continuing. "How can I fault you for your convictions? If you can't hold onto them, what do you have? They will grow as you do, if you let them. Isn't that right,Trent?"

But Trent was looking with horror at something outside the window and had not heard a word Caspar had uttered.

"Oh, my God!"

"What is it?" said Caspar and Chekov in unison. Caspar hurried to Trent's side, his own eyes widening in fear.

Pavel threw his legs over the side of his bed, finding himself clad in one of the loose-flowing robes Caspar so often wore. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't support him and he fell to his knees before Caspar and Trent could reach him. They ran to his side and sat him back on the bed, Trent hurrying to administer more medication.

"This isn't due for another hour, Mr. Chekov, but we have unexpected company and you must be ambulatory," explained the doctor as he shot the stimulant home. "I knew this would happen soon. It looks like the Grey Robes have done a little more than start a commotion this time," he muttered to Caspar as they went out the side door and crossed the square, Chekov supported between them.

Caspar looked over his shoulder at the following crowd and saw that the robes of many in the crowd were now spattered red. He did not want to linger on what those stains might represent. . .instead he looked ahead to the hills in the distance, the only place they might find sanctuary from the pursuing mob.

"We'll just have to out-distance them, that's all," he panted.

"And if we don't?" asked the pessimistic physician.

"Don't even think about it."

ooOOoo

"Standard orbit, Captain."

"Captain," called Uhura, "I am unable to raise Mr. Chekov, but the emergency signal on his communicator has been activated!"

Kirk darted a look at his science officer before ordering Uhura to have the communicator and whoever was holding it beamed aboard immediately. He and Spock hurried to the transporter room, where a security team stood ready.

The person who materialized on the platform was wrinkled and bent with age, covered with blood, and totally out of her mind. She lunged for Spock, bellowing with rage, before he stopped her with a nerve pinch and lowered her gently to the deck.

McCoy, bursting in a few moments later, ordered her taken to sickbay for further examination. Just before they took her out, Bones pried something from her fingers and handed it to Kirk with an accusing look.

It was Chekov's communicator, partly crushed by the strength of the wild woman's grasp.


	4. Chapter 4

In the Eye of the Beholder  
by Westel

They're like bloodhounds!" gasped Trent, as he helped Caspar pull the light-headed navigator through the tangled underbrush. "We can't shake them."

"We're too slow. Our friend is slowing us down." Caspar glanced at the semi-conscious man he supported. "Thank God he's no longer in pain."

And indeed the Russian felt no pain – in fact, he felt very little of anything – a side effect of the heart stimulant. He knew their situation and he knew what would happen if they were cornered, but he could not bring himself to _feel _anything about it. He let himself be pulled along by the older men like two possessive children fighting over a rag doll.

"He'll be feeling it soon enough, I'm afraid," muttered the dour doctor. "I cannot _ believe_ I left the hypo back there."

"Don't kick yourself too hard, Trent," grunted Caspar, as he shinnied over a fallen tree trunk and turned to help the ensign over. "We were a little rushed back there."

"Well, dammit, when he passes out on you or his heart stops o he screams in pain, you'll do enough kicking for the both of us. We've got to find some place to hide. If we can buy enough time, maybe his ship will show up."

"That's not likely, Trent," answered Caspar with uncharacteristic pessimism. "But you're right about one thing," he added, his old cheerfulness resurfacing, "We've got to find a place to rest – at least for this poor fellow's sake. Didn't we find some caves up here about forty years ago?"

"Yeah, back when we were kids," Trent clipped, wryly. "Seems to me they were just over this rise."

"Funny," Caspar answered impishly, as they maneuvered Pavel up the hillside. "You haven't aged a day since then."

ooOOoo

"Captain, preliminary scans indicate there are one or two masses congregating in the more heavily populated areas of the colony. Some of the masses are composed of citizens and visitors, and some are of people like the woman we beamed aboard. Unfortunately, these masses are beginning to mingle."

Kirk ran a hand over his eyes. "So far no one is answering our communications transmissions. We're powerless to try to stop the rioting until the planet's government enlists our aid."

"But not too powerless to try to find our missing ensign."

"How are we supposed to find Pavel in all that, Spock?" Kirk barked, gesturing toward the monitor which showed an overlay of the geography and massed humanity on the planet's surface.

"Based upon what we know. Mr. Chekov is obviously in trouble, having been parted from his communicator. He has been exposed to the mutated Hemera rays for several days, and the riots are no doubt instigated by deranged beings – like that woman – wandering about in the colony. What would you do if you were in his place, Captain?"

Kirk stared across his desk at the Vulcan and smiled inwardly at his logic. It was, as usual, impeccable. "Well, if I could move under my own power, I'd get away from the riots or whatever is going on down there, try to find a place to hide until I knew my own people would come looking for me." He frowned suddenly. "But Spock, I wouldn't know that the _Enterprise_ was in orbit – I wouldn't expect her for another two days."

"That is certainly a factor to consider. And Jim," continued the Vulcan, lowering his voice slightly, "we must also consider the fact that Ensign Chekov may very well be incapacitated by now, or even dead."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock, for reminding me of that very real possibility," said Kirk, grimly, as he rose from his seat. "Let's get back to the bridge. It's time to organize search parties. And I want you to continue trying to find out why the whole planet seems to have suddenly gone crazy!"

The first officer followed his silent friend from the room, noticing the captain's hands clasped firmly behind him, the knuckles white.

ooOOoo

Pavel awakened to darkness, and for a terrifying moment he was living a childhood nightmare of finding himself trapped in an old access tunnel, his outstretched hands invisible in the blackness engulfing him. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he fought to breathe the stale air. Flinging out his arms, he scraped the back of his hand against the clammy cave wall. The realization that this was no dream only brought the dark pressing in on him even more.

"Mr. Chekov! Are you all right?"

Pavel felt firm hands on his shoulders, easing him back down to the floor; he recognized Caspar's comforting voice.

"I. . ." He had to bite off an answer as pain assailed him, battering his chest, leaving him gasping. Caspar lifted him to a half-sitting position, resting the ensign's dark head against his body. He could feel the young man's heart laboring beneath the borrowed robe, wishing there was something he could do for the boy. He had seen young ones die before, and it had been hard. But this one. . .

"God, please. . . not _this_ one! he said, pulling the navigator protectively closer. In the gloom, he couldn't see Chekov open his eyes, nor his understanding smile. But he could feel the Russian's hand upon his arm, and the meaning of the gentle pressure there.

"Sir," whispered the young man.

"Shush! Don't talk just now – rest."

"Sir," Chekov persisted, feeling an urgency to speak. "My friends call me Pavel. I wish. . ."

"I hear them coming," interrupted Trent matter-of-factly, as if reading a weather report. He scrambled back into the cave, his huge frame squeezing between two boulders. "What do we do now?"

"Lie still and be quiet," suggested Caspar.

"No!" exclaimed the Russian, struggling out of Caspar's arms and crawling over to Trent. The cave ceiling was so low it was impossible to stand up, even if Pavel had been physically able to do so. The medication had worn off long ago and the man clutched the front of his robe in mute agony. "We can't let them find us in here – it's a perfect trap! Better to stay out in the open, anyway. The _Enterprise_. . ." He coughed, the pressure in his chest increasing with every breath. Trent and Caspar supported him for a moment until the spasm passed. "The _Enterprise_ will be scanning for us. There may be minerals or metals here that would block their scan – they would never find us. We have to move out, go up to the top of the hill."

"You couldn't move two feet in your condition," growled Trent, but his expression suddenly softened. "Look, Chekov, your heart's giving out. You push yourself any farther and you're going to be beyond my help."

"Besides," interjected Caspar, "you said the _Enterprise_ wasn't due until day after tomorrow. What makes you think she's up there now?" He glanced at Trent before continuing. "you've also lost your communicator. We tried to find it, but it must have dropped during our escape. You can't contact your ship, even if she were up there, and they can't contact you."

Pavel drew a ragged breath and looked up, as if he could see something beyond the roof of the cave. "That doesn't matter, now. It's just a feeling I have. If you knew and worked with those people on the bridge as I do, you'd have it, too." He looked back at his two friends. "I _can't_ stay here! I'll just die anyway. It can't be any worse dying out there." He took a look around him and flashed a quick, grim smile. "Besides, I prefer to _see_ what's about to kill me." Without waiting for an answer, he crawled toward the opening. Trent and Caspar, after exchanging brief looks, followed close behind.

ooOOoo

"Mr. Scott, any sign of those rioters?" came the captain's voice over the communicator.

"No, sir, although we're onto something here," Scotty replied, looking at the fresh tracks they had been following in the woods. "It looks like a bunch of 'em took off into the hills. Woodson's readings confirm that," he added, noting the nod from the young woman bearing the tricorder. "They may be running away, Captain, or. . ."

"They may be following someone. Is that your estimation, Scotty?"

"I'd like to check it out, sir. . ." The engineer turned on his heel when his party heard a commotion a few hundred feet away, hidden from sight by the trees and rocks above. "Captain, there's something happenin' above us, just over the rise!"

"We've got it, Mr. Scott. Life forms just above you, but no way to tell who they are. McCoy did an autopsy on the old woman who died and has confirmed Spock's theory that there is a deterioration process taking place, causing severe symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. They're extremely dangerous. Proceed with caution, phasers on stun. Additional security are on their way to the transporter room and will be joining you directly."

"Aye, sir. Scott out." The engineer motioned silently to the other team members and they scrambled up the hill, heedless of the noise they made. The group they pursued were making such a racket there was no danger of being overheard. Reaching the top of the rise, they looked down a slight embankment at a teeming mass of humans who bent over something lying on the ground, striking and clawing at it like animals tearing at their prey. Scott's group was outnumbered.

He flipped open his communicator. "Captain, where's that additional help? There's a bunch of 'em, and they've got someone pinned down. You better. . ." His sentence was broken off as he and the security team were crushed under the weight of the Grey Robes who had crept up behind them, further enraged at the sign of so many young people.

A few seconds later, there was the whine of the transporter effect, and the subsequent scream of phasers, but Scotty was too far away to notice, lost in his own grey world of oblivion.

ooOOoo

"Easy, Chekov! Parker, help me hold this man!"

Pavel felt strong hands upon him, just as before, and fought back with everything he had. Only moments ago he had been pinned to the ground under the weight of snarling Grey Robes, unable to move, unable to breathe, his heart feeling as though it would explode. Strange, but for a moment he could have sworn he heard Mr. Scott, but the voice was soon swallowed up in the roar of angry men and women who had tracked him and his friends down. When the blackness began to envelope him and the shouting began to fade, he was grateful for the peacefulness of death. But now they were at him again, grabbing him, trying to take him. He struggled wildly, careless of his own physical condition.

"Parker, don't you have two hands? I said _hold_ him!"

The ensign felt the hypo spray against his neck and was immediately aware of two things: he was in sickbay on the _Enterprise_ and he had just been given the most powerful sedative he had ever experienced. Peaceful nothingness returned just as he'd begun to ask some questions.

ooOOoo

"Computer, begin recording."

Kirk commenced the meeting by having Ensign Chekov give a summary of his findings while on the pleasure planet. Kirk watched him unobtrusively as the navigator gave the report, his voice clipped and unemotional.

Since the planet's government had finally requested aid from the starship, the riots had been dispelled and medical teams beamed down to help with the Grey Robes. Starfleet had been advised of the situation and the _Enterprise_ would remain in orbit until a science ship arrived – a matter of a few days.

The captain had offered to put off the debriefing for another day or two, but the ensign had insisted he was ready to recommence his duties. McCoy had backed him up, but warned Kirk that there were deeper wounds which had yet to surface. Jim Kirk recognized the signs all too well.

". . .and Mr. Spock's analysis should confirm the results of my study. I therefore recommend that Starfleet deploy warning buoys around the planet and all advertising brochures be removed from Federation recreational travel facilities until the Hemera/Mai Li interaction can be eliminated."

Pavel turned off his compboard and listened attentively as Spock commenced his report, confirming the Russian's findings and his own initial theory of rapid synapse deterioration among some of the colonists.

McCoy followed with a report on the woman who had been beamed aboard with Chekov's communicator and had subsequently died. Definitely radiation poisoning. Cause: mutated Hemera rays. Spock expressed a desire to conduct further studies of the rays and their effect on the original colonists there, and Kirk had to remind him that the Federation science ship would handle that end of it.

"Well, gentlemen," said Kirk in a tone which denoted relief that at last one more meeting was over. "Based upon Ensign Chekov's observations, Spock's analysis, and McCoy's diagnosis, I believe it is best to follow Mr. Chekov's recommendation to quarantine the planet until neutralization can be affected." He stood, and all present stood as well, believing the meeting to be over. However, the captain requested they all remain by an uplifted hand.

"Mr. Chekov," he began, placing both hands behind his back. "You've done an outstanding job, Ensign. You performed your duty under extraordinary circumstances. Mr. Spock has also rightly pointed out to me that you exhibited tremendous insight in your insistence on leaving the cave."

Kirk eyed the navigator carefully. There was no blushing, no fought-off smile, no youthful pleasure in receiving high praise from a commanding officer. Chekov stood rigidly at attention, his face pale and expressionless. He moved closer to the Russian, hand outstretched. "I've recommended you for the Atarxes Medal of Courage, Ensign Chekov. Congratulations."

Pavel moved as if in a fog, clasping the captain's offered hand and feeling slaps of well-wishers on his shoulders. They were finally leaving, and he returned to the table to retrieve his compboard.

"Mr. Chekov, I'd like a word with you in private."

Pavel, still somewhat dazed, looked up to see Kirk motioning him to sit. The doors closed upon the exiting personnel, and the two men were alone. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he sat. Captain Kirk wanted to talk with him – he knew what was coming. "Sir, about my report."

"What about it, Ensign?"

"I. . . Well, I. . ." He cleared his throat. "It wasn't _finished_."

Kirk's eyes narrowed as he saw a break in that Vulcan-like façade. "You think that's why I wanted to talk to you?" Chekov's bleak stare was his reply. "Well, it's _not_.

"Pavel," he began gently, "McCoy told me when he broke the news to you about the deaths of Dr. Trent and Mr. Caspar you didn't react at all. Yet your report shows you had worked very closely with Mr. Caspar." He saw the youth stiffen. "You cared about this man." A statement, not a question.

"He never called me by my first name," Pavel replied huskily. "I wanted him to know I considered him a friend, even after everything that had happened. But it was too late; we had to get out of the cave."

"Chekov, what happened on that planet was unfortunate, but it this Caspar was the man you say he is, I think he would have done everything in his power to make it right."

The Russian brought his head up, looking directly at his captain. "You're right, sir. Caspar and Trent had come clean with me. They knew I would have to make a full report. They could have conveniently done away with me, but they took care of me, got me away from those poor, insane. . ." He took a deep breath. "And I had asked them how they planned to explain my disappearance." He looked away hastily.

"Pavel, you're not the only one who's ever misjudged. . ."

Chekov turned back suddenly, stopping Kirk in mid-sentence. "I behaved shamefully, sir. I don't want – I don't deserve any medals."

"You don't? So who does? Do we base our awards on perfection, or rather on a man's strength of will, dogged determination – even anger? Perhaps you'd better explain it to me, Ensign, because it seems to me your standards are pretty near the flawless mark. I don't think any of us would qualify." When he got no response from Chekov, Kirk continued: "Chekov, talk to me, and that's an order! What have you learned from this experience?"

The Russian sat back in his chair, straightening his uniform. "I – learned that things are not always what they seem. I. . ." He looked at Kirk to see if his response was what his C.O. wanted.

"Go on," encouraged Kirk, leaning back in his own chair, arms folded across his chest.

"I learned that beauty has many forms, as well as insanity, or fear. Also I learned. . ." He hesitated, because this was personal, and perhaps irrelevant, but decided to continue. "I learned that a person's chronological age has really very little meaning among friends. Affection and regard transcend any difference in years. I tended to – well, ignore older people, because I thought we had nothing in common. I was wrong." The navigator stood up, his voice strengthened with the conviction of what he had just said.

"We learn by doing, Ensign. It seems to me your new friends would have been proud of you. And they would have been pleased at the government's request that Starfleet help them establish order. They have not died in vain; once that mutated Hemera ray problem is taken care of, the planet should be everything they hoped it would be. You helped bring that about, Pavel. Don't you realize that yet?" Senior and Junior officers locked eyes for a moment.

Kirk tilted his head in the director of the doors. "That's all."

"Aye, sir." Pavel picked up his compboard and disks and headed for the doors. As they opened, he turned impulsively and grinned at the captain. "Thanks."

Kirk shooed the youth away, smiling crookedly. It may take some time yet, but the boy was going to be all right.

ooOOoo

_They have not died in vain_. That thought sustained Pavel now as he rode the lift to the lower decks. Life would eventually return to normal, or at least a semblance of it. Except he had changed - matured, stretched a little. Something that usually came with age. . .

As he stepped into the corridor, Pavel remembered the look on Kirk's face when he had talked to him in the conference room. Kirk had known how he felt because he, too, had been through similar experiences – time and time again. The navigator wondered just how many more such adventures he would have before obtaining his own command.

_Not too many, I hope_, he smiled to himself as he walked into the rec area. _ One experience at a time._

Someone was talking loudly as Pavel got his coffee, his voice carrying across the room.

". . .some of the screaming mob was beamed up, too. I hear the transporter room was crawling with medical personnel, security, and crazy old coots." The lieutenant's voice trailed off as his audience signaled him that Chekov was standing just behind him, listening to every word. Ship's grapevine had circulated the story that the ensign had become very close to one or two of the old men and was somewhat touchy about it. Lt. Briskor twisted in his chair and looked up hesitantly into the navigator's face, wondering if having rank on Chekov would save him from having his face rearranged. He was surprised to find the Russian smiling back, his eyes free of anger.

"Some of them _were_ crazy, Lieutenant, through no fault of their own, and believe me, some of them weren't as old as you might think. Two of them did become my friends." He stepped closer to the still-seated lieutenant, making him crane his neck uncomfortably. "But none of them – with all due respect, Lt. Briskor, sir – _none_ of them. . .were 'old coots'."

The people in rec area four watched in silent respect as the Russian turned on his heel and walked from the room, his back straight and head held high. They did not see him fight returning tears in the corridor, nor his hasty retreat into the arboretum. He walked alone for awhile, the scents and breezes reminding him of the pleasure planet, and his long conversations with Caspar.

Finding a bench, he sat upon it and, without conscious decision, began a dialogue with his absent friend.

_I once asked you to call me Pavel. After I learned that age is in the eye of the beholder – when I discovered that friendship is timeless, ageless. I lost you too soon, Caspar! I could have learned so much from you. . ._

In the privacy of the arboretum, Chekov's grief held full sway, and he lost all track of time. Gradually, however, as the vented emotions gave him some peace, he found himself within the crystal-clear memory of those last minutes in the cave, when Caspar held him so carefully. Pavel had tried to convey his feelings for the old man through touch. And for a brief, aurora moment, Caspar had laid his old cheek against the top of his head.

The intercom whistle interrupted his thoughts harshly. "Ensign Chekov, report to the bridge."

He walked briskly to the intercom to acknowledge the call. Then, for a second or two, he looked up at the treetops silhouetted in the gathering false twilight, and drew a deep breath.

_I'll remember you, Caspar. You and Trent. I'll always remember._

Ensign Pavel Chekov strode from the room, a strange smile upon his face.

End


End file.
